


blue and eight inches

by fallenidol_453



Category: 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille - Various Composers/Attia & Chouquet
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Anachronistic, Don't copy to another site, Execution, Gen, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 05:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenidol_453/pseuds/fallenidol_453
Summary: He will die dignified; he will not die with rumors upon the people’s mouths that he went mad and started talking to things unseen.





	blue and eight inches

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the Serious Summary, this is not angsty in the slightest. Inspired by a particularly bothersome plot moppet screaming how funny it'd be for ghost!Ronan to bother Lazare if the latter was ever guillotined.
> 
> (I probably could've made things funnier, but comedy isn't my strongest suit, so I rolled with what my prudish brain came up with.)
> 
> I do not own 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille, I'm just here to play in the sandbox for *maybe* five minutes.

In the shadow of the guillotine, Lazare knows his sins run redder and deeper than the blood staining the execution block. It’s better to die here, he thinks, than to be torn apart or lynched on the streets or murdered like the Princess de Lamballe.

When the priest asks if he wishes to make one last confession, he stays silent. There are no words that can appeal to the nameless faces staring back at him; he wouldn’t doubt for an instant that he and his regiment have been responsible for the deaths and injuries of their family members in the past.

His body is secured to the stocks. It’s a beautiful day, a slight chill in the air—

_“Hey Lazare! Laz!”_

No one from the crowd has spoken.

Lazare makes the fatal mistake of looking out of the corner of his eye. There, to his left, is Ronan. Who is still the same bothersome, malnourished peasant who got into his business more than once, except he’s riddled with bullet holes and a pearly grey that should _not_ be visible in the sunlight, but somehow _is_.

“Hey Laz! Guess who’s blue and about to lose eight inches? It’s _you_!” Ronan shouted. He hopped down from the wooden platform with a whoop of laughter, and in one fluid motion he’s materialized in the front row of the crowd. “It’s a miracle it’s your head and not your other one!”

If the crowd sees Lazare snarl at the peasant twink’s filthy joke, they assume it’s because of his presumed ill treatment up here and not because he’s trying to not retort a reply at something only he can see.

He will die _dignified_; he will not die with rumors upon the people’s mouths that he went mad and started talking to things unseen. Especially if the unseen is the ghost in the front row pulling faces at him.

“Damn you, Mazurier.” he whispers. He closes his eyes. When he gets to the pearly gates, if there are any waiting for him, he’s going to punch Ronan’s face in.


End file.
